Chapter Text
2007
Shane pushes through the door of his house. The door swings open and the handle smashes into the wall. He goes to close it without looking but he misses and ends up swiping at thin air. Shane breathes heavily through his nose. He takes a second, turns and slams the door shut so aggressively the house shakes.
He has his hockey gear slung over his back in a duffle bag that almost drowns him in size. He hurls the bag at the bottom of the stairs. It's left there until his mother gets home and decides its time to get the walking hazard out of the way and washes his gear. Shane does this every Wednesday and Saturday at around four p.m, when he returns home from practice.
Today his parents are out, so they aren't there to ask him what's up. To ask why is he slamming doors and throwing gear. Shane's hand shakes, his breaths coming out in a labored uneven pattern. There's a hunger clawing up from his stomach to his oesophagus that's squeezing at the back of his throat. It feels like nausea.
Jessica, his girlfriend, had been at practice today. Shane has said he would take her out on a date after practice; to the movies or to get food. He hadn't really planned what to do except for the fact it was supposed to happen after three forty-five when practice ended, but she’d shown up at twelve thirty. She said she had to raincheck on the date, which was fine, good even; well not good, but Shane would be tired after practice; and probably hungry. And he didn't really have that much allowance anyway.
And all that really should have been fine. Was fine. Is fine? The point is that it's fine, rainchecking and all. It's just she felt like she should apologise. You know, for the ‘inconvenience’. Which it wasn't an inconvenience in the first place, and he mentioned that, more than once.
Then she had pulled him by the hand to the disabled toilet, his teammates for his local high school hockey team hollering behind them; and well, he doesn't think he's a virgin anymore. He's not sure what qualifies as losing his virginity but a blowjob in a public bathroom probably meant something.
He missed lunch break talking to her, and while he was playing but before she had to leave, he gave Jessica his pre-prepared sandwich to eat on the stands, because she said she was hungry. Waving to him every time he looked over. His teammates jostled his shoulder every two minutes, shaking him, with knowing smirks on their faces.
The issue with all this is Shane had never played hockey on an empty stomach. Which is crazy when he really thinks about it, because surely having practised twice a week since he was fourteen, and being sixteen now, he must have played at least once on an empty stomach. But this is the first time he's recalled that level of focus on the ice. This level of blankness in his thoughts.
There’s noticeable hunger pains that make themselves at home at the top of his stomach. It gives him something to focus on, grounds him on the ice in a way nothing else really manages.
He thinks his teammates chalked up his ruthless level of precision on the ice due to Jessica's presence. Shane feels a little dirty though because he knows that every time his stomach clenched and his mind zeroed in on the puck it wasn't Jessica that caused it. Well, it kind of was but not like that, not because of that, it was the missing food.
His stomach growls in the empty house. Shane stalks over to the fridge and rips it open, shaking the contents in the fridge door. Nothing really looks appetising, even though his dad had just restocked the house on Monday. He heads to the pantry, stomach twinging
He's hungry, he knows he is. It's just weird because all of the food looks a bit gross right now. He stands in the middle of his kitchen telling himself to eat. Like a mantra. Just fucking eat something. Berates himself over and over again. Anything. Eat. Eat. Eat.
He eats.
He eats the goldfish crackers then the entire pack of protein bars. Cakes and snacks that were saved for the next month. They crumble in his grasp and food crumbs litter the counters and floors.
He's indiscriminate with the food he's eating. One thing after another, it's just whatever his hands touch first. When his jaw grows tired and sore he heads to the fridge. There's a tub of yoghurt in the far back of the refrigerator, low fat and plain, so he eats that. Plastic cheese, cold leftovers, everything he can possibly consume, he does.
There's this part inside him telling him not to stop now he's started. The part that's shaking- The part that's stuck inside the disabled toilets with Jessica. The flushed, exposed live-wire part of him that begs him to keep up the repetitive motions of chewing and swallowing.
He doesn't bother to cook anything. Just consumes, and consumes, and consumes.
He doesn't stop till the nausea grows and overwhelms. Till it expels down the toilet.
Unfortunately that wasn't the last time it happened. The… well, throwing up- or the sex with Jessica. But mostly he's talking about eating to the point of vomiting. His parents had actually almost grounded him when they saw the kitchen littered with wrappers and discarded food containers, but he just apologised and cleaned it up, promising it would never happen again. In the end, they were pleased enough to just roll their eyes and comment on the appetite of a teenage boy.
Next time it happens it’s a game against a rival team. He, along with the rest of his hockey team, had just been informed there's college scouting happening. Almost everyone turned to him when the coach said that. All those eyes directly turned on him. He'd been asked by school counsellors, other students, his parents if he's planning on college. He's not. He's going to become a professional hockey player. He knows this, they know this. So there's no point for everyone to turn to him, to look at him right now.
It's more planned out this time because he knows how he wants to play. Hard and fast. And last time he played like how he wanted to, it was on an empty stomach. And well, people say hockey players have their rituals. But he's not hungry right now. Won’t be for a while, his Dad had made pancakes for breakfast. Always does on game days.
He has to make himself empty. Shane knows how to do it. He'd done it before, so he just had to recreate it; preferably without almost getting grounded this time. He takes his pre-packed lunch and his wallet. The vending machines here are always packed so he heads over and buys one thing after another. His hands shake as he puts the coins in. Maybe its nerves, but he suspects its anticipation.
By the time he's done with buying the haul of food he's only got a limited amount of time to eat it all, so he heads to the disabled toilet. It's the only toilet no one can hear him in, it's the same toilet Jessica led him to.
This was stupid. Wasteful. He knew that.
Still, there was a grim satisfaction in knowing exactly what to do. In not panicking, like he’d learned something useful. A new trick, or ritual. Like the big leagues. There's a faint thought that maybe others do this, to feel like he wants to feel.
It's almost methodical how he eats. in, in, in until he feels like the only option is out. He feels kind of crazy doing it. It's a waste of food for one, and money, and it's probably bad for him physically to throw up. The act of throwing up itself is gross, and he doesn't even want to perform well for the college scouts, so he doesn't really know why he's doing this.
He eats everything and waits. Waits for that pit of too much to get out. Waits, and waits. And waited for about five minutes before he realised. Shit, it's not going to happen.
He needs it to happen though. Desperately. So desperately he knows he's going to have to do it himself. Get rid of it himself. He’s been gearing up for this. This was going to happen, from the second coach opened his mouth, he knew he was vomiting today. He checks his watch, he's running out of time.
He leans over the toilet seat. One hand braced on the wall because he is not about to touch the toilet seat itself.
He remembers seeing a movie, he’s not sure which one, where a man puts his fingers down another man's throat to make him vomit. It was probably to stop an overdose or something but he assumes the logic still applies to food.
It has to be done, if was just the pancakes it would be fine but it’s everything else he’s eaten now too. If he doesn't vomit now he’s so nauseous, he might later on the ice, in front of everyone. So, it has to be right now.
He clenches his eyes shut and brings two fingers to his mouth. His heartbeat is in his ears and he can feel the vomit climbing its way up. He gags once, then twice. Nothing.
“Okay, okay Shane,” He murmurs to himself “Okay, commit. Just commit.” His voice seems loud in the sudden silence after his gagging.
Third time’s the charm.
He stares at the multi-colored vomit in front of him. He sees chunks of half eaten Skittles swirling around and the stench of stomach acid is strong. But he swears he sees pancake chunks as well. It feels a little like he accomplished something. It turned his stomach to look at it. The smell alone made his eyes water. But it was proof. He’d done what he needed to do.
There's a half smile on his face. He only notices when he looks at himself in the mirror. He also notices the puffy lips and red eyes. He needs the taste of acid out of his mouth. Now.
He bends down and fills his mouth with water from the tap, the angle is off so he ends up choking on it. He watches as saliva and water drips from his mouth. He spits.
Shane wipes the saliva from the corner and with one last glance at his reflection heads out to play hockey.
It's weird because he feels like he should be tired; should play worse, and the pain in his abdomen feels like he's just done crunches. The pain, physical evidence he just expelled his lunch from his body.
But if anything he plays better, faster, stronger. There's this faint taste of puke coating his mouth and the cold air hitting the back of his abused throat hurts a little; yet he's never felt better about his performance on the ice.
Hockey is the only place his body feels useful, meant for something, instead of clumsy and in the way. His mind goes empty on the ice, like there's no energy to focus on anything else, so it finds the puck and doesn't stray from it. After puking it almost doubled his concentration, thoughts about Jessica, his parents, or his future just aren't there anymore.
Next time he’ll make sure to buy something beforehand so he won't have to waste money and time on old overpriced vending machines.
“You’re playing like a machine today, man!” A teammate passes him, clapping him on the back. He stumbles a little, then straightens. The word ‘machine’ stuck in his head like molten toffee, oozing into the cracks in his thoughts.
It only strengthens his resolve. This isn't the last time.
It becomes a pattern.
It becomes a little like a routine. Something he can optimize and control. This part of his day, he knows exactly what he's doing and what to expect. It’s rhythmic.
So, on Wednesdays, before practice, in the public toilets on the bottom floor behind the canteen he eats whatever he’s got packed for lunch and whatever he’s managed to scavenge throughout the week; stuffs his face, and then gets rid of it. It’s done in a timely manner. He makes sure. He times himself. No more than thirty minutes. Once he managed to do the whole routine in under ten.
He also does it on Saturdays at home, before or after practice, depending on how he’s feeling and where his parents are. His parents are less likely to be home throughout the day, sometimes they do errands or go on date nights. Saturdays he likes the most. Not that he likes doing this, but there's gotta be a reason why he chooses to spend precious hours locked in the toilet.
Saturdays when no-one's around, can prolong it for as long as he wants, gets to float on that not-feeling a little longer than usual. He's not scared about getting caught so he can be as loud as he wants. Doesn't mind so much when he chokes and coughs. It's days where he doesn't have to eat in the toilet but can take his time making food in the kitchen, or on particularly bad days raid the snack cupboard. As long as he cleans up after himself, he learned his lesson from the first time, it's fine.
For some reason the thought of his friends, teachers or god forbid his parents finding out he does this fills him with dread. It doesn't seem normal, but it helps, so he doesn't really care. It helps him feel regulated, like a hard reset for his body. Kinda. Like he feels physically a little shit afterwards but emotionally it gives him time. Like an auto-pilot he can turn on to turn off his brain.
He does it when he can before any game he has. Practice is one thing, that he can skip and it'll be fine, but any proper game, he tries his absolute hardest to... well.
He eats mostly normally the rest of the time. So he suspects it's fine. Sometimes he skips meals. But that's only when he's sure not everything came back up. Or he feels so stupidly guilty about the whole thing. But it's mostly normal. He eats what his parents give him for dinner and mostly keeps it down.
The mac and cheese his mother made is slimy. He picks at it with his fork, pushes it around his plate, then eats a piece of boiled broccoli that's also on his plate.
His Mom sits in front of him, his Dad on her right. They're eating the same thing. Kinda slimy mac and cheese and boiled broccoli. They seem to be enjoying it so he sucks it up and tries his best to finish his plate. His mom told him he was a picky eater as a kid, sometimes he feels like he still is. If being picky is what’s making him want to push the plate away.
“You get into a fight on the ice, kid?” His dad gestures to him with the end of his fork, it's covered in cheese sauce.
“What-” He looks down to his hand. His first two knuckles are split. He hadn't noticed. “-Uh, yea. Yeah. just some asshole chirping” He goes back to staring at his food.
“I remember when I used to get into brawls with other college kids. God I almost forgot how violent it can get.” His dad chuckles and reminisces.
“You were never violent David, even on the ice.” His Mom laughed into her water, fond exasperation evident in her tone. Even Shane could tell there was no heat to the quip. His dad however scoffed.
“I was plenty violent.” he grumbles as he chews his food, petulance obvious. Shane's mother just smiles and rolls her eyes. She makes eye contact with Shane and shakes her head.
“Do you want me to take a look at it, honey?” She points at his hand with a smile on her face. Shane hides the offending limb beneath the table, then takes a sip of water with his left instead.
“No- uh no. Someone's already looked at it. It's fine.” He smiles tight lipped back at his mother. She nods in understanding before going back to her food. His heart was beating unreasonably fast.
He didn't get those cuts on his hands from a fight, or even from hockey. He got them from making himself throw up almost twice a week for a couple months. His teeth catching on the thin skin of his knuckles, tearing it.
There's a lump at the back of his throat. His jaw aches when he swallows. He hates lying. He hates lying to his parents especially. So he shovels pasta, shuts his mouth and chews.
He’s been invited out to a party. Jessica was leaning on his shoulder when he got asked by his friend Jason to join. Jason has been nice to him, invited him out a few times, he’s on his Hockey team with him. He didn’t really want to go, he felt a bit obligated. Especially when Jessica tugged on his arm and begged to be his plus one. He told himself he would enjoy it if he went.
He decided he’ll come for an hour, show his face, and leave. Well, that had been his plan. Until Jason pulled him by the wrist, placed a cup in his hand, filled it for him. That was before he’d shone his blinding smile, all white straight teeth, and asked if he’d hang around for a while. Shane nodded, smiled a more reserved smile and agreed.
Jason had quickly run off after that, greeting another guest. Jessica was here somewhere as well, she was with him when he arrived but quickly got sidetracked when she saw a friend of hers.
He mills around for a while, drinks a cup of whatever Jason pours him. When he’s not sure what to say next in a conversation he excuses himself to get another drink. A cycle he can’t break out of when all he really talks about is Hockey and when he cares very little for high school drama.
He gets appropriately drunk for the situation. By that he means he gets wasted, can hardly walk by the end of the night. Jason offers for him to stay over. Jessica has left by then, kissed him on the cheek with a sweet goodbye arm in arm with one of her friends, giggling the whole way to the door.
He agrees to stay over. He falls backwards on the couch, head spinning. A fittful sleep takes over.
He wakes up a few hours later, or what he thinks is a few hours because it's still mostly dark outside. He sits up fast, he has one dreadful thought.
‘I’m going to be sick’
He clenches his jaw shut, pushes his tongue against his teeth to try not vomit. It barely helps. He has two choices; outside or inside.
Outside wins when he finds the door before he finds the sink. Jason’s parents house is nice. Apparently they’re out on a holiday without Jason. Shane couldn’t imagine what that would be like, his parents are such a staple to his everyday life, his Mom overseeing his upcoming Hockey career and his grades simultaneously. He prefers it that way he thinks. Parents that spend weeks abroad without him seem neglectful compared to what he has.
Jason’s parents have these beautiful flowers in their backgarden, Shane doesn't know the name of them. They’re purple, pink and probably going to be dead from all the alcohol infused vomit watering them. There’s probably a gardener that’s going to be very disappointed to see the flowers they’ve been tending are dead. Or maybe one of Jason’s parents looks after them, probably not, the house is too big and too nice for gardening to be a hobby.
Either way he’s going to be long gone by the time they get back.
Shane takes a step back. Sways forward again. Nausea climbs and Shane gags, nothing comes out.
Shane takes a large breath through his nose and holds it for a good few seconds. His stomach churns again when he lets it back out.
2008
It's freezing in Saskatchewan. Ottawa's cold too, he lives in Canada, it's cold just about everywhere, but Saskatchewan’s further north so it's colder. It’s snowing when they get there. He was worried they wouldn't be able to land the plane.
It's the international prospect cup. Mom says this is his big break, to show the world his worth. She says to have fun, but mostly she wants him to win. Shane knows this; knows he's got the expectations of his country on his back to succeed. The announcers know him by his first name and know that he's good.
Shane also knows he has an almost guaranteed spot in the NHL draft entry next year so he's not sure why everyone's worrying, not that he’d ever say that out loud, but still, it's true.
The rink itself is freezing. He needs some air. Air that isn't polluted with a hundred other kids' expectations.
It's outside the rink building where he meets Ilya Rozanov for the first time. He's smoking. Shane tries to tell him it's bad for him but it feels a little hypocritical considering his own affinity for throwing up in toilets on purpose in his spare time.
The truth is, that was Shane's goal up until he saw Rozanov leaning up against the wall outside. He'd decided it was too much in there, and he knew it wasn't the game itself that he was going to be empty for. His mom had way too much of a close eye on him right now for that. So he thinks it's just practice. Just once.
He told himself back in Ottawa, not this weekend. It was too important of a game to risk the jitters he sometimes got after throwing up. It was maybe becoming a bit of a vice and he's sure in the big leagues. Real athletes don't do this, so no being sick this weekend.
That was until he got here, and people started talking to him, or worse about him in front of him, and his coach screamed one more lap, and his mother made sure he'd eat before every practice and match to ‘keep his strength up’.
So he makes a deal with himself. Just once, and only a little. Just to get the itch to go away. It's like his mind goes on auto-pilot. Once he has the fuck it thought, he has one goal, everything else kind of goes away and he's just thinking about the logistics.
This happens sometimes back home. If he really needs to do it and there's something in the way; then his brain shuts down and he doesn't really realise what he's doing until there's vomit in the toilet and cramps in his stomach.
But the public toilets were too public. People in and out every two seconds. And the hotel was too far away to be back in time for more drills. So outside in the snow would have to do. He did a quick lap of the place and the only suitable place was really where Ilya Rozanov stood.
So he goes over to tell him he's not supposed to smoke here, in that spot. The no smoking sign next to Rozanov's head visible from a mile away. When all Rozanov responded was “ok.” Shane was kind of out of ideas to get him to leave. So he accepts his fate. This guy was not moving.
Some painful small talk later, Shane realises, one it had been too long and people are probably expecting him back in skates. And two, talking to Rozanov for some inexplicable reason calmed his nerves enough that Shane shook himself out of that tiny trance of his in and out routine.
He loses to Russia. To Ilya Rozanov. He has this niggling urge to blame it on the eating thing. He knows, or suspects it’s not rational. It seems silly if he were to say it out loud, yet… just maybe if he had, just that once.
He's at school when he gets the idea.
He's sitting with Jessica. He thinks they're going to break up soon. She keeps talking about college and he keeps mentioning that he's probably going to get drafted to the NHL. Anytime they mention either topic it gets awkward.
In the meantime, her friend Abigail is talking about this diet she's trying. He's noticed in many of Jessica's friends, their constant talk of diets and body weight.
The diet of this low carb thing she insists is going to make her lose a pound by the end of the month. He's not sure how true that claim is but it does make him think.
When he gets home he heads to the family computer and googles different diets, what's best for athletes and hockey players. The issue with using the family computer is that anyone can walk in on his research.
“Shane!” His mother calls from directly behind him. He spooks. Flinches so hard the little notebook he was writing in falls off the desk.
“Oh, you're researching athletes' diets?” His Mom looks over his very tense shoulders. He's not sure why he's reacting like this. This was a normal thing to do, to research. His mother reads the article he was on, one hand braced on the back of his chair.
“You should’ve told me.” Her attention flickers down to him. His nerves spike.
“What?”
“I would’ve given you some tips.” She smiles and Shane's own lips slowly mimic her. “You see there's this thing called a macrobiotic diet. I tried to follow it when I was younger, it didn't work out” She laughs at herself, a little self-depricating.
“‘Exuse me.” She pushes Shane aside and exits out the article he was on. One about ‘Protein, Protein Protein’ that followed the diet of some famous football star. “My mother showed it to me when I was younger, it seems only right to show it to you now.”
She pulls up the macrobiotic diet wiki and gestures to him to read it. He skips most of the history and heads straight for what he's supposed to eat.
Whole cereal grains, especially brown rice: 50–60%, Vegetables: 20–30%, Beans and sea vegetables : 5–10%
Yea, yeah he can do this. This is actually kind of perfect.
“Thanks Mom.” He turns to her and smiles, a proper smile this time. She ruffles his hair.
“I'll tell David to go shopping,” She presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’m so proud of you.”
There's a pitt in his stomach, like unchewed food. This’ll help. He knows it. If he just follows this meal plan it’ll be alright. He’ll beat Russia next year. He's sure.